"When the people spoke of hope, they whispered his name, but he knew the truth. He wasn't their last hope—he was the last one who believed in what they had once hoped for.

— Memorial of the Fallen, Imperial graveyard.

"Charge!" His voice roared "Push forward!"

He climbed out of the trench, his boots sinking into the thick, wet mud. With the whistle still hanging from his neck, he raised his arm, signaling his soldiers to follow.

The men surged behind him, scrambling up the sides of the trench, eyes wide with fear and determination. The ground trembled beneath their boots as they stormed the battlefield. 

The attack had begun.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he hefted his bolt-action rifle. He took aim at the advancing enemy soldiers, squeezing the trigger and feeling the familiar kick of the rifle against his shoulder as the shot rang out.

But then—click.

His heart sank as he cycled the bolt again, but it jammed. Panic flared in his chest, wrenching the bolt with all his strength, but it remained stuck. Around him, chaos reigned, the battlefield a symphony of screams and death.

"Get down General!" One of his soldiers shouted, panic lacing his voice as the machine gunner aimed at Frainh.

But Ivan the radiomen acted swiftly, pulling the trigger. The sound of a bullet whizzed through the air, striking the machine gunner squarely between the eyes. The enemy crumpled, lifeless, his weapon finally falling silent. Blood splattered across the sandbags.

He started rushing further but a shell suddenly exploded nearby sending a shockwave that knocked him off his feet. He crashed hard into a dead horse, its rotted body adding to the horrific smells.

When he regained his senses, he found himself surrounded by chaos. The ground was bloody, the cries of the wounded mingling with the distant rumble of artillery. 

Staggering to his feet, Frainh's vision blurred and blood pounded in his ears.His body screamed in protest, but he pushed forward to the enemy lines.

The trench was a nightmarish realm, merely 500 meters long yet filled with the grotesque remnants of humanity. Soldier, chest cavity ripped open, innards exposed as if something had devoured him from the inside. Pieces of others littered the trench, a severed arm draped over the sandbags.

Men lay sprawled, bodies contorted in impossible angles, faces twisted in agony. Some barely clung to life, their eyes wide with terror, mouths agape as they gasped for breath. The sight of a comrade's head, blown apart by shrapnel, sent a jolt of nausea through him. Nearby, a soldier clawed at the mud, blood seeping from a gaping wound in his side, his cries for help drowned out by the explosions.

The fight in the trench raged on, a brutal melee of steel and flesh. Frainh pressed forward, the weight of his rifle feeling both like a lifeline and a burden. His soldiers fought valiantly beside him, their faces grim, eyes steely with determination as they clashed with the enemy.

Blood sprayed in thick arcs, painting the muddy ground crimson as men fell friends and foes alike under the relentless onslaught.

"Push them back!" He shouted, his voice barely rising above the chaos. 

With each passing moment, they surged forward, the enemy's lines faltering under their fierce assault. Frainh led the charge, his bolt-action rifle roaring as he took down one enemy after another.

But then, as the last of the enemy soldiers retreated, sudden silence followed.

"Get down!"

As Fraihn shouted it artillery fire started to rain down on them.

Smoke and dust filled the air, making it difficult to see. Men shouted in panic, some lost to the chaos, others desperately trying to regroup amid the devastation.

"Stay low!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle as the trees around them shook violently.

A nearby shell exploded with terrifying force, showering the trenches with shards of wood and earth, the noise deafening and overwhelming. Frainh ducked instinctively, the debris raining down. One of his men screamed, a harrowing sound that twisted in Frainh's gut, as a massive tree fell, crushing him beneath its trunk.

"Hold the line!" He shouted, the urgency in his voice cutting through the chaos like a beacon of hope. 

The darkness concealed the enemy's movements, but he could sense their advance, creeping ever closer. The forest, once a serene refuge, had transformed into a hellscape, where trees became tombstones and the earth drank deeply of their blood.

But the battle was merciless. Artillery fire intensified, shells exploding sending shockwaves through the air and ripping bodies. Frainh barely had time to react before a massive explosion erupted nearby, the force sending him tumbling backward, his rifle slipping from his hand.

The world became a blur of fire and smokey. Frainh scrambled to his feet, heart racing as he fought against the disorientation. 

"Get up! Get back in position!" Frainh shouted, desperation lacing his voice as he rallied what remained of his men.

They were battered, weary, but he could not allow despair to take root. With every ounce of strength, he pushed forward, reloading his rifle and taking aim once more.

In the midst of the chaos, he saw a fellow soldier, a boy barely older than Bende, clutching a wound to his chest. Blood flowed freely from his fingers, staining the ground as he gasped for breath. 

"Stay with me!" Frainh shouted, rushing toward the boy, but a bullet whizzed past him, striking the ground. The boy's eyes widened in terror, and with a shuddering gasp, he fell silent, his body collapsing into the mud, life slipping away like water through fingers. 

Each soldier who fell was a part of him, a piece of his soul extinguished in the fire of battle. The weight of their deaths pressed heavily on him, the realization that he could not save them all a crushing blow to his heart.

But he had to keep fighting. 

He had to survive, not just for himself but for them.

"Hold the line!" He shouted again, forcing strength into his voice as he rallied his men.

The line was crumbling, the advance of the enemy pressing down upon Frainh and his mens. As bullets whizzed past, crushing into the ground around them, Frainh could see the strain etched on the faces of his soldiers. 

"Fix your bayonets!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as the enemy clashed into their line.

Frainh screamed as his bayonet plunged into the enemy throat, the blade cutting his throat. The man collapsed, clutching his insides as he gurgled his last breath.

"Push them back!" 

He shouted as he tried to wipe off the enemy blood of his face, but an enemy soldier lunged at Frainh, their bayonet aiming for his heart, but his radioman Ivan pulled his revolver trigger just in time sending bullets toward his head.

The trench became a slaughterhouse.

The enemy was overwhelming, their numbers unfathomable. After what felt like an eternity of combat, Frainh glanced at his watch. Fifty minutes had passed since the onslaught began.

"Retreat!" He ordered, "Ivan, radio for cover fire!"

Ivan, grimaced as he crouched down behind a fallen tree, reaching for the radio. "Cover fire! We're pulling back!" He shouted into the radio.

As they fell back, the machine guns sprayed the forest, trees splintered sending wooden shrapnel flying as Frainh pushed Ivan ahead of him.

They sprinted through the shattered remnants of the city gates, which had been reduced to rubble to prevent any enemies from breaching their last line of defense. 

"Let's keep moving!" Frainh shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, but then a massive shell exploded just short of their position.

The world seemed to slow for a moment, and then the shockwave hit.

The force was like a giant's fist, slamming into Fraihn and the others, hurling them through the air. Glass from the shattered windows exploded outward, jagged shards slicing into skin and armor alike. 

Fraihn felt his body slam into the hard stone wall behind him, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Pain shot through his ribs, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Gasping, disoriented, he struggled to rise. His vision blurred, but as it cleared, the scene before him was a nightmare.

One of his soldiers lay pinned beneath a massive slab of stone, his lower half utterly crushed. Bones jutted from mangled flesh, and his once-pristine uniform was soaked in dark blood. 

The enemy shells were pounding the city walls mercilessly, each explosion shaking the very ground beneath his feet. Dust and debris rained down, shells crashed into nearby buildings, sending stone and brick flying like deadly shrapnel. 

Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed him under the arms, pulling him to his feet. It was Ivan, his face pale and streaked with soot and blood.

He helped Fraihn to a wall, pulling out a bloodstained map from his coat pocket. His mind raced, searching for some advantage, some way to turn the tide. The enemy was closing in, and they were running out of time. Fraihn's eyes narrowed as they locked onto a point the riverbanks just beyond the city.

"There." He muttered under his breath, jabbing a bloodied finger onto the map. He turned to Ivan, who was crouched beside him, radio in hand. "Tell me if we've got any allies near!"

Ivan nodded, his face pale beneath the layer of dirt and ash coating his skin. He quickly began radioing out to any nearby forces, his voice barely audible over the constant rumble of shellfire. Fraihn kept his gaze on the map, blocking out the chaos around him. Every second mattered now.

After what felt like an eternity, Ivan glanced up from the radio, his expression grim. 

"The 4th Imperial Artillery Division is about 24 kilometers away!" He reported, his voice strained.

Fraihn's mind raced. It was a gamble, but it was their only chance. He turned to Ivan, his voice low but firm. "Radio them…tell them to shell the city."

Ivan blinked, clearly confused. "Shell the city? But... we're still here—"

"Just do it!. We're out of options. If they don't…we'll be overrun before the sun sets. Tell them to prepare, now!"

Nodding, Ivan turned back to the radio. The reply crackled through the static,it would take them ten minutes to prepare and begin firing.

Ivan stared at Fraihn, eyes wide with uncertainty, but he said nothing. Fraihn's mind was already racing ahead, calculating the risks. 

They had ten minutes to brace for hell, ten minutes to make their escape or fortify what little they had left. The city would become a death trap, but if the timing was right, they could lure the enemy into the kill zone, sacrificing their position to annihilate the attackers in one devastating blow.

Ten minutes. The clock was ticking, and the enemy wasn't going to wait.

When the commanders finally arrived, four of them limped in, blood trickling from wounds hastily bandaged, their eyes hollow from exhaustion. The others stood firm, though dirt and grime coated their faces, their expressions hardened by the hell they had endured. Fraihn wasted no time. The city was collapsing around them, the walls shaking as artillery rounds ripped through stone and flesh alike.

"We're pulling back to the riverbanks!" He shouted. "When the artillery hits the city, we're charging back in."

One of the commanders, his face pale and smeared with soot, looked at Fraihn in disbelief, as if he couldn't comprehend the plan.

"Sir... if we pull back now, the enemy will overrun the city! There's no way—"

"That's the plan! They'll charge in with everything they've got, and when they do, the artillery will rip them apart! The second the artillery strikes, we charge in with bayonets. We'll tear them apart in the chaos."

Fraihn stabbed his bloodstained finger at the map, pointing to the cluster of buildings in the city center. 

"Those four houses here overlooking the woods will be machine gun nests. I want heavy fire coming from there, cutting down anyone trying to retreat or regroup."

Another explosion shook the ground, this one closer than before. Dust and ash filled the air, so thick that Fraihn could barely see a few feet in front of him. 

"The machine gunners will need to get into position as fast as possible." Fraihn barked, eyes wild. "Make a squad that will escort them. When the enemy enters the city, I want it to be a slaughter. We'll trap them between the gunfire and the rubble, and we'll burn every last one of them."

"Get moving!" Fraihn ordered. The commanders saluted and hurried off to relay the orders, leaving Fraihn to stare down at the map, his hand trembling slightly. He led his remaining troops to the riverbanks, waiting.

In the midst of the tense exchange, Ivan's radio crackled to life again. The artillery division was ready.

Fraihn stood silent for a moment, watching the horizon, where the enemy was regrouping. His sharp eyes caught the movement of their forces; they were indeed massing for a final push, confident in their victory. His lips twisted into a grim smile.

"Do it!" He shouted to Ivan.

The roar of the artillery drowned out all other sounds. Shells screamed through the sky, falling like the wrath of gods onto the city. 

Fraihn's voice barked over the radio, commanding his troops. "Push forward! Kill them all!"

The enemy, once so confident in their overwhelming numbers, were now being slaughtered like cattle. Those who tried to flee were gunned down, their screams piercing the air like the cries of tortured souls. Fraihn's men showed no mercy, their bayonets cutting through flesh and bone, their boots stomping through blood and ash as they reclaimed the city.

The machine gunners did exactly what Fraihn had ordered. As they reached their positions, the bullets tore through the enemy ranks as they attempted to advance. The sheer volume of firepower cut down scores of enemy troops, forcing them into a desperate retreat. Those who weren't fast enough were shredded by the relentless barrage, bodies crumpling to the ground in grotesque, twisted forms.

It was exactly what Fraihn had anticipated. They had no time to regroup, no chance to retaliate. It was a slaughter, pure and simple. The streets became rivers of blood as Fraihn's men pushed further into the city, their boots splashing through pools of red.

"Push them into the fire." he said quietly, almost to himself. "Kill them all."

This wasn't just a battle. 

It was a massacre. 

As the enemy fled back into the woods, chased down by Fraihn's forces, the forest itself seemed to come alive with death. The machine guns roared, the cannons thundered, and the trees themselves were torn apart by the onslaught. There would be no escape for the enemy now.

The machine guns roared to life, their bullets ripping through the woods. Chunks of trees splintered and fell as the rounds tore into the forest, some striking the ground among Fraihn's own troops. 

The field became a graveyard, littered with fallen soldiers whose lifeless forms lay twisted and broken in the grass. Fraihn felt a chilling sense of satisfaction mixed with the horror of what was happening. Each bullet that struck an enemy was a testament to their own survival, a desperate fight against overwhelming odds.

Everywhere he looked, bodies lay strewn across the battlefield, some lifeless and others writhing in agony, their screams cutting through the chaos like knives. Men, once filled with courage and resolve, were reduced to mangled heaps of flesh, their faces twisted in expressions of terror and pain.

 A soldier nearby clutched his severed arm, blood spurting from the wound in sickening arcs, painting the ground crimson.

Another soldier's leg was pinned beneath a fallen beam, his screams a gut-wrenching symphony of despair as he struggled against the weight.

But it was not just for them, he too was hit.

The realization struck him as adrenaline wore off and sudden pain erupted in his stomach then he fell on the ground.

After the pain the cold was the first thing that hit him.

His thoughts were muddled, every movement sluggish. Blood loss was setting in, pulling him in and out of consciousness.

When Fraihn opened his eyes again, the chaos of the battlefield was gone.

He was home.